Dear diary,
So God begins his long slow trip back up the mountain. The unsure footing of his pale horse on the narrow dirt trail provokes a constant fear that the pair might fall to their death; but the horse never does actually slip off the path and begin to tumble mane-over-tail down the mountainside with God.
They come to a cactus, and God snaps off its crown with his bare hands and sucks the water therefrom. He then tosses the used portion back at its origin with a curse.
Eventually they arrive in paradise. God stables the horse and then shuffles over to the altar, whose fire he uses to fry some bacon. Despite the open flame, he uses his bare hand to place the strips of cooked bacon on a plate; then he heads over to his throne, where lambkin is leashed. Bending low to slide the plate before its snout, “Here you go,” he pats the lamb. Finally, God sits down on his throne.
“Uh oh, here comes trouble,” God sez aloud, seeing Milton Satan approaching in his motor-tub.
[AUTHOR’S NOTE. I want to be clear about this character Milton Satan — he is neither the poet John Milton, nor is he the Satan from Paradise Lost. Rather, he is simply an average angel who was christened Milton and whose surname happens to be Satan.]
“I heard that,” laughs Milton Satan. He slaps God five; then he steps back and broadly gestures to the enthroned one’s foot-coverings, whose cleats are dripping fake blood: “Oho! Nice boots.”
“You like?” God uncrosses his legs and raises one to draw attention to the footwear — tho he’s wearing a kilt, the shot is framed at an angle that remains tasteful to us in the audience (if not to his angel-friend). “Bryan gave them to me in the previous book.”
“Whoa,” sez Satan; “close your legs; I can see your pope.”
“Sorry,” sez God, and they both laugh. “Well, what brings you here this humdrum afternoon? Is Gabriel’s orgy scene finally in the can?”
“Nah, I don’t think they’ll ever finish that,” Milton Satan smooths his lapels; “and who can blame them? I was just strolling thru the land, walking to and fro and going up and down in it. When I noticed that your throne was empty, I headed over — only to see if you had left a note: I would never take your seat — but then you came back round the mountain before I could get here.”
“I just went down to Fleshworld to see what’s cooking. I heard the parents killed all the children again, and I thought maybe they were planning on offering them as a sacrifice; but it turns out they actually all became shades and are now baking cookies together. Talk about boring.”
“You mean the Progenitor Class is dormant too? Jeez, that’s a first,” sez Milton Satan. “We should almost go down there and replenish—”
“Not everyone’s asleep yet,” God interjects. “The absolute worst of the worst always hold out. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Ah, I hear ya; that’s wise advice,” sez Milton Satan.
There is silence in heaven for the space of half a moment.
“Well, I guess I’ll get back to wandering around,” sez Milton Satan. “Walking back and forth, and going up and down, until they call me for my scene; then I’ll be doing the old in-out.”
“See ya round,” God holds up two fingers.
§
Now the lamb shits rubies, so God must find out what is ailing it. He drapes it over the back of his pale horse, ties it down with hempen rope, and they ride to the veterinarian, who lives halfway down Mount Horeb. (God leaves a note saying “Lambkin sinned again: Visiting vet. Back in 5 min.”)
“O God! What happened?” cries Bryan Ray the Veterinarian of Purgatory, leaping up from his desk and working frantically to help God untie his poor lamb. “Why did you make the ropes so tight?”
“I didn’t want him to fall,” sez God. “The mountain is very steep, and the pathway is narrow.”
“O lambkin! O lambkin!” Bryan hugs and kisses the lamb, who is limp and weak.
“I don’t know what happened. One minute he was frisking about, tap-prancing around on the oak wood floor of the little studio that I bought for him (he just loves his new glowing purple horseshoes); and then the next minute I hear this fizzy sound and, behold, the poor thing had shat gems.”
“Really? — like diamonds? No more golden eggs?”
“Not diamonds: Rubies.”
Bryan the Vet looks up sharply, after hearing this. “Don’t tell me you’ve been feeding him pork again.”
God shrugs.
“You KNOW that pork is an unclean food, especially when offered to idols, thus it should be consumed only sparingly,” Bryan the Vet chastises God.
“Do you need to pump its stomach?” God sports a look of innocence.
“NO! I’m NOT going to use that awful gut-pump that you made,” sez Bryan; “that’s gross. Plus it’s uncomfortable. No, instead I’m going to use my latest invention—” Bryan the Vet now dashes into the back of his shop and comes out holding what looks like a king-size bazooka: “I call it ‘The Beauty Beam’.”
[To be continued…]
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